#editorial note

[thenewinquiry]

A look inside TNI Vol. 52: New Masses, out today! 

Featuring writing from Ayesha Siddiqi, Alana Massey, Zoe Samudzi, Ava Kofman, and more. Art direction by Imp Kerr, as always.

[thenewinquiry]

TNI Vol. 52: New Masses

This is the editorial note to TNI Vol. 52: New Masses. View the full table of contents here. Subscribe to TNI for $3 and get The New Masses (and free access to our archive of back issues) today.

• • •

On the speed of unrest: “The public is a slow-moving riot,” writes philosopher Nina Power in “Thirty-One Theses on the Problem of the Public,” quoted in the chapter of Joshua Clover’s Riot. Strike. Riot that we excerpt in this issue. But this is also a way to explain the school-shooting epidemic, inNew Yorker writer Malcolm Gladwell’s hands: “think of it as a slow-motion, ever-evolving riot.” As usual, the apologist of ruling-class ideology unwittingly expresses a facet of the truth. The public as we know it is a formal name for a long series of shooting sprees carried out by young white men, or, put another way: bourgeois society is war.

Within the theater of war are populations and zones marked as targets, and those who enjoy the protection of a sort of social camouflage. Riot. Strike. Riot concerns itself with the population “whose labor can never be objectified,” and therefore “whose modality is riot,” and whose unfolding is “not a demand but a civil war.” Clover notes that researchers from the Global Social Protest Research Group have found that the wave of uprisings since 2011are neither “Marx-type” or “Polanyi-type,” but a new form entirely: “Protest of the Stagnant Relative Surplus Population.”

We may think we know what these surplus populations look like. The intuitive relation of race and riot (Clover writes: “we might finally argue that the term “race riot” has an inverted sense: not that of race as cause of riot, but of riot as part of the ongoing process of racialization. It is not that race makes riots but that riots make race.”) informs one aspect of of this population. But visibility and invisibility are both weapons at work in this war.

“Narratives around various forms of state violence tend to be gendered male,” Zoe Samudzi writes in this issue. Because of this, “Black revolutionary energies in the past have deliberately excluded and discriminated against cisgender women as well as queer and transgender individuals. And, sadly, they continue to do so.” Drawing lessons from the movements that used the #RhodesMustFall, #SayHerName and #ImbokodoLead hashtags, she calls for a black liberation politics that places queer, transgender, disabled, poor, and other marginal black identities at the center.

Nanjala Nyabola, too, calls for an enriched political understanding of how to relate to these violent global abstractions in her essay “Long Live Man-Africanism.” She upbraids the patriarchs who have distorted the revolutionary potential of pan-Africanism into solidarity for the wealthy men whose power dominates Africa today. Man-Africanism has “never seen the liberation of women as a priority,” she writes, because “the oppression of women has never seemed as grave or as urgent as the suffering of powerful men. Focused on formal power and the public sphere, it will never seek to overturn private hierarchies of exploitation if the primary beneficiaries will be women.”

But the visibility of suffering can also be a way of invisibilizing the global hierarchy of humanness that long-distance exploration relies on. In “The Bengali Click Farmer,” Mayukh Sen reads a recent documentary as one entry in a recent tradition of Western pity for Bangladeshi workers that ultimately does more for the pitiers than any of the workers they invoke. The documentary, focusing on click farms providing thousands of likes for Facebook pages with a social media budget, relies on the same colonial relation that it purports to examine: Bangladeshis are emptied of any emotive capacity of their own, only to serve as a foil against which Western feelings are measured as more valuable and more real — “to do the emotional work necessary for the Western consumer to be moved, and to have that consumer’s beliefs stroked rather than complicated.”

For now, global wage disparities make automating service work like this cheaper to conduct with real humans overseas. But the smart homes of the future aim to extract more value from the other end of the market. Ava Kofman investigates the Internet of Things-enabled household to come and finds that it still rests on a foundation of intricate domestic care work. This replacement of low-wage but highly skilled labor by machines is the mark of a failure to reimagine social relations. Instead of living inside of the enemy’s weaponry, we could recognize the nuclear family as an artifact of a defunct moment in history and redistribute reproductive labor. Perhaps we will, but for now the future looks like an industrially-designed house.

Design, Erwin Montgomery writes, “like fascism, leads people to misunderstand the fundamental verities of their existence.” By making manual labor that has been reduced to mere gesture more visible than the generic, the modern cult of design offers consumers the opportunity to express themselves as expert consumers. But instead of a democratization of aesthetics, the extension of design into more corners of daily life represents a distributed network of power, an inverted military bureaucracy, keeping constant tabs on its captives and combatants alike.

An indelible image of what American fascism looks like appeared on social media last winter, when Black Lives Matter organizers brought crowds into the Mall of America and an enormous screen, clearly intended for the lush hues of commercial videos, instead displayed a black and white warning to disperse or face arrest. In this issue, Erik Forman, a worker who had spent years trying to organize his Starbucks shop there tells the story of how he and his fellow organizers greeted the movement as the signal of a different kind of unionism. “Black workers are leading, white workers need to follow,” Forman writes.

The difficulties of unionizing in the classic mode are a function of a labor market shaped by a historically different relation to capital. The specifics are detailed in the excerpt of Clover’s book, but the felt experience is chronicled in the universally-reviled 2015 Zac Efron flop We Are Your Friends, dissected here by Ayesha Siddiqi. This limp saga of a crew of boy EDM DJs is “the perfect conclusion to anachronistic first wave millennial angst and Pitchfork-era debates,” she writes. Had it been girls, however, the movie couldn’t have been so earnest. Alana Massey writes about the way that the idea of the clique is used to curtail female intimacy in adulthood. Its visibility is in excess of its prevalence, she argues, and is a public check against women acting in solidarity. The expectation that women be ready to perform friendship for everybody “signals that a woman’s social life is not considered her own,” Massey writes. “It must be arranged for the benefit of the family, of strangers, anyone really besides herself.”

In “The Silence of the Masses Might Be Social Media,” Rob Horning considers the implications of social media through Baudrillard’s gnomic writing on the “masses.” These abstract publics undergo a paradoxical inversion. “For Baudrillard,” Horning writes, “deindividuated populations ruled over through monitoring, statistical modeling, and predictive analytics are supposed to be “the social”—i.e. the “reality” of what the data measures, but they instead are becoming “the masses,” an amorphous blob of individuals that eludes certain management by its sheer inertia, which proves uninterpretable even as the system throws more resources at trying to understand what it wants or where it is headed.”

Is this elusive mass related to the “Stagnant Relative Surplus Population” of Riot. Strike. Riot? The parallels are striking, and it’s certainly the case that these increasingly non incorporable populations are the province of management, statistical capture, and prediction. The population of social media and the population of the riot don’t strictly coincide, but there is something satisfying about their shared emptying communication “itself of meaning through the intensification of the means by which it is circulated.” That is: speeding up the publics of social media, until it becomes a real-time riot.

[thenewinquiry]

The New Inquiry, Vol. 49: Interviews

This is the editorial note to TNI Vol. 49: Interviews. View the full table of contents here.

IF all writing in public is a form of seduction, as Stephen King says, then the interview is one of the subtlest come-ons. It can masquerade as a conversation and lull with its artfully contrived spontaneity and concision. It can make its subjects seem tantalizingly accessible, yet the immediacy can amplify obscurity, proliferate double-meanings, parallax perspectives. The documented exchange also points to questions unasked, answers elided.

By attending minutely to a subject’s experience, anxiety, and expertise, an interviewer can become a collaborator with one step, an interrogator with another. The interviewee modulates their trust, cooperates and resists, sometimes simultaneously. This is all part of the seduction, though who is seduced at any moment is always in question: the speaker, the listener, or the eventual readers.

But the interviewee must be especially aware of being seduced, because the performance is not mainly for them. The interview subject is always navigating two audiences simultaneously, one of which will betray them for the other. And not all interviews are meant for public ears. Some interviews end with a job offer; others end in arrest.

In the New Inquiry’s application to the IRS for nonprofit status, we claimed we were a “space for discussion.” With this issue, we take this quite literally, going all in on interviews. They cover a range of topics, from the writing scene in Côte d’Ivoire to anti-displacement activism in Brooklyn; from challenges to the biological basis of gender to novels about racial-reassignment surgery. In each, a specific, delimited object of expertise unfurls to reveal how it is embedded in global, dynamic systems of production and capture: mushroom pickers in the Pacific Northwest signal shifts in capital accumulation and labor relations; accounting practices migrate from high finance to our intimate self-assessments.

Yahdon Israel interviews novelist Jess Row, whose Your Face in Mine prompts Israel to ask, Why do so many white people no longer want to be white? Azeen Ghorayshi interviews Anne Fausto-Sterling, whose landmark book Sexing the Bodychallenged the biological basis of sex and the presumption of scientific objectivity. Matthew Kiem talks to fellow activist Angela Mitropolous, who connects an analysis of economic risk to Australia’s politics of racial exclusion and border controls.

Miranda Trimmier pushes theorist Miranda Joseph to trace the history of her project on debt and accounting to its origins in anti-­prison work, as well as her tenure in her university’s budget advisory board. Sitting on the ground in a hotel parking lot, Aaron Bady interviews ­Edwige-Renée DRO, an Ivorian writer who diagnoses the African publishing industry’s problems as matters of infrastructure and class.

Branden Adams’s interview with anthropologist Anna Tsing draws lessons from fungus harvesters to illuminate that most persistent fungus, capitalism. Cynthia Tobar interviews longtime Bushwick resident and community organizer Jose Lopez, who connects displacement to housing laws and challenges neighborhood newcomers to join the longstanding efforts to change them. And in Am Schmidt’s chat-form exchange with Wynne Greenwood, the Seattle artist behind the electro-pop performance-art project Tracy + the Plastics, they explore Greenwood’s recent restaging of her lost archive. They explore the degree to which when we perform ourselves, we also perform to ourselves.

We are grateful to our interviewers and interviewees, and their willingness to speak, to step out and perform on an uncertain stage in front of an ultimately unknowable audience. Without the considered editorial control available in written modes of self-expression, the interviewee is not only at the mercy of her own speech but of the interviewer’s intent. The interview is perhaps a sinister form. After all, any interview, no matter what else it covers, teaches the same lesson: be careful about what you say.

[thenewinquiry]

The New Inquiry, Vol. 38: Futures

[thenewinquiry]

The New Inquiry, 35: Sick

This is the editorial note to TNI Vol. 35: Sick. View the full table of contents here.

Subscribe to TNI for $2 and get Sick (and free access to our archive of back issues) today.

Being sick changes your relation to your body and how you inhabit it. As an experience, it is stubbornly untheoretical, even though it oozes theory, infecting concepts of cleanliness, system, and body with its disorder. Mutated understandings proliferate from sickness that lance falsely clear categories, revealing the orderliness of the world to be a form of disease. What is clear is that clinically treating biological pathogens as the sole source of corporeal trouble is an efficient way to wipe clean the structures that weigh on our lives.

Earlier this year a report found indigenous Americans suffer PTSD at the same rate as Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans. This year too, Eric Garner was choked to death by a NYPD officer, but chalking his murder up to either banned maneuvers or chronic asthma is to ignore the sickness of the social order that brought Garner and his murderer Pantaleo into such predictably lethal contact. The past hundred days or so have seen the deadly toll of the social order, which steals lives as steadily as a heartbeat. That order has come under revolt by people immune to the political delusions that take such a body count to be an index of civic health.

It’s easy to say that capitalism makes us sick, white supremacy makes us sick, misogyny makes us sick, and mean it quite literally. What and where it hurts is another question, and why may be beyond our scope. But in this issue of The New Inquiry, our contributors attend to their illnesses. Hannah Black writes of the toll of losing someone to schizophrenia, of the death-in-life that you have to accept when it dawns on you that you no longer exist in a shared world. Caring for a person with a mental illness forces you beyond all measure, she writes, which is why it often falls to women, who live partly outside of measure, and often makes them crazy too.

Another kind of crazy-making death-in-life is is living with the knowledge that you have tried to kill yourself, as Natasha Lennard writes in “On Suicide.” Questions of intent are necessarily hazy in this act, which confounds the subject-object split beloved of philosophy but doesn’t make it any easier to put to rest. Trying to die, but in a state that means you can’t really mean it, means you’ll struggle with coming to terms even with your failure—as if there even are terms to come to.

Evan Calder Williams writes of the experience of diabetes as a transformation of your body into a siphon through which the world pours itself. Historically, diabetes has been understood through its liquids—-insulin, urine, blood that must be constantly drawn and read. Diabetes is the condition of no longer being able to take what’s supposed to be good for you, but it forms subjects whose existence depends on the same circuits of production that made them sick from the start. Trapped between refusal and fidelity, of course they are targets of shame.

In “Weight Gains,” Willie Osterweil examines the equally shame-ridden problem of obesity, though its medical status isn’t nearly as stable as that of diabetes. Instead, he finds it to be a product of capitalist agriculture’s need to find a place to store its glut, which it resolves (as always) with the bodies of workers. If anything about obesity is a sickness, he writes, it’s that the global food market is structured precisely like an eating disorder, sending consumers spinning from diet pill to subsidized corn.

In “Taking Shit From Others,” Janani Balasubramanian writes of that most shameful substance, shit, and the miraculous cures it promises, if only the FDA would get past its squeamishness and let a thousand transplanted microbiomes bloom. The digestive system, like a body within a body, is the where the world flows through us.

Racialization is another way the world gets inside us. Yahdon Israel takes a serious look at the racial ramifications of cooties, turning the playground malady into a lens through which to examine the level of light required for passing a black body as a white one. For a black child trying to understand how the world sees him, cooties signal the racist threshold between “good” and “bad” bodies.

In “Who Cares” Laura Anne Robertson writes of the gendered infrastructure of care work, reading her job as a nurse in a mental health-care facility through feminist theories of the relation between gender and labor. Anne Boyer writes of breast cancer as a uniquely destructive force in women’s intellectual history. If women do not die for each other, she writes, they die of being women.

In our reviews section, Derek Ayeh assesses Atul Gawande’sBeing Mortal, recently a presidential pick for the First Daughters. American medicine fails the dying, he writes, and makes examples of deliberately chosen death, like Brittany Maynard’s, appear as relief from industrially extended sickness. He finds Gawande’s critique of medicalized death to be compelling, and even more, his recommendations of what doctors should do instead to be practically and applicable advice.

Reviewing Eula Biss’s new book On Immunity, Sara Black McCulloch finds that the divisions immunity relies on (host, body; sick, well) has given rise to a whole host of sick programs: eugenics, miscegenation laws, and forced sterilization of genetically “undesirable” mothers. But this obsession doesn’t even have a clean starting point—we’re born impure. Instead, a real understanding of immunity would take its true lesson to heart, that both the threat and the treatment must come from inside the body we all share.

Sickness, as treated in these pages, becomes a name for the ways the world makes individual bodies bear its weight. Illness is either rebellion or submission, our bodies rejecting a foreign pathogen or succumbing to a weakness in our defenses. Examination can’t always diagnose, but perhaps it can prompt healing.

[thenewinquiry]

Editorial Note to TNI Vol. 33: Dicks

This is the editorial note to TNI Vol. 33: Dicks. View the full table of contents here.

Subscribe to TNI for $2 and get Dicks (and free access to our archive of back issues) today.

***

What even is a dick, anyway? A dick can be made of the material of a penis or a clitoris but not all penises and clitorises are dicks; a dick can be something you are, something you have, and/or something you receive. A dick can be bought or granted, earned or inherited. Some dicks are built out of silicone, others with layers of steel. Sometimes, a dick is made out of a person. For example, some dicks are the dead President of the United States, while some are just the dead national poet of Luxembourg. Some are detectives, and some are detectives’ batons, and some are a sporting goods chain and a member of the Fortune 500. Some people who possess dicks wear theirs all the time and some just when they feel like it. Some wear themselves out following a dick around (theirs or someone else’s). Dicks are famous objects of longing, and being a famous object of longing can turn you into a dick.

In its guise as an organ of arousal, the dick has reigned at the head of a long campaign of slander against all other forms of pleasure. In patriarchal fantasy, the cis-masculine dick is supposed to be the unparalleled worldly avatar of arousal, with its evidentiary erections and productive orgasms. But unlike other forms of desire, which spring up everywhere all the time, even under duress, this dick apparently needs vast swathes of cultural production, violent appropriation, and an entire social mechanism of binary gender to stay hard. It is a fantasy pressed into service as a pretext. If psychoanalysis pretended to ask “What do women want?” it’s perhaps because colonial-capitalist culture is so focused on instructing men in what their dicks want and then giving it to them.

In 20th century western Europe, Freud and his colleagues forged a startling account of childhood as a tragic quest to discover who in the family does and doesn’t have a dick. In other patriarchal cultures, the dick is an equally magical object, not only affording its bearer social power but also able to transform other bodies, as in cases where sexual violence is aimed at feminizing men and rendering women “damaged goods.”

In this, our most special issue ever to concern a spectacularly unspecial thing, we look at the dick in a few of its current forms. Alexander Benaim tells how a building becomes a dick, pumped up by speculative finance capital, and also how it behaves like one, ignoring the neighborhood’s consent (or lack thereof). Collecting letters between world leaders and an enterprising artist, Maryam Monalisa Gharavi chronicles a ban on neckties in post-revolutionary Iran, followed by the artist’s transformation of the deposed Shah’s tie two times: once, as a slavishly Western impression of a phallus; last, as a noose, as if to say that the master’s tools do sometimes do the work.

“Is the penis simply the vagina with more chutzpah?” wrote Vishnu Strangeways in his first-year anatomy notes, revisited here in his essay on genital reassignment. For Strangeways, medicine is a frequent collaborator in binary gender, yet the surgeries and accompanying therapies open up a sackful of sovereign, individual, and surprisingly variegated demands. To answer his question: is the foreskin simply a less hot version of the labia? Not to the Catholic Church and not to its nuns, whose ecstatic habit of dropping Jesus’s prepuce like it’s acid is lovingly restored from the relics by Stassa Edwards. Only in certain turn-of-the-century “gentlemen’s” rags, as Colin Dickey flips to find out, does a slipping past the censors of pro-circumcision ads for anatomically masturbatory kicks begin to rival the nuns for a fun way to jailbreak one’s celibacy.

The word dick can stand in for both the actually existing penis and the never-possessed phallus. Patriarchy weaponizes dicks but can’t turn them all into its instruments; feminist and anticolonial practice rehabilitate dicks but can’t save every one. Perhaps the solution is simply to outdo them. Four decades ago this month, Lynda Benglis got naked with an XXL dildo in the advertorial “centerfold” of Artforum, prompting a shitstorm of insular outrage. The sculptor’s double-headed act of vulgarity should have long lost its promise to shock; instead, as Ana Cecilia Alvarez shows in her fleshed-out recounting and contextualization of Benglis’ work, the pure rapacious joy of her image makes it as impressive a rarity in today’s feminist-conceptual landscape as it was back in ’74.

Were the image submitted not to a group show, however, but to Madeline Holden’s beloved, self-explanatory Tumblr—Critique My Dick Pic: 100% Anon, No Size Shaming—Ms. Benglis would get the best of all grades from our Internet’s kindest critic of sensual currency. “I wanted to put dick pic recipients in the driver’s seat, to demand that our desires are given weight and thought,” writes Holden in a discussion of what she’s learned from dick pics so far. “I want to depart from the idea that penises are little more than punchlines by framing men and other people with dicks as sexy, as objects of desire: looked-at and not just lookers.”

Of course, no critique of a dick is as devastatingly accurate as a blow job. Keeping the linguistic history of cocksucking firmly in cheek, Janani Balasubramanian considers how best to take a dick in the mouth when mouth and dick alike are ideas just waiting to be queered, and when the act itself has become rather more a performance. “Any part of the body can be, become, or unbecome a dick,” they write, then add in some new flesh, too, unspooling examples of dicks from “the New York skyline” to “racialized ideas of phallus size” to “hands, feet, faces, strap-ons, fingers, ears,” and if the hairs on your forearm are standing up, those are erections too. Once you look a little off-center, you find that your body is scattered with sites of arousal. “We can toss sex outside of language,” they nearly plead, “and still communicate with our tongues.” It is tricky to imagine a sex that is not its own language, but maybe that’s what Balasubramanian intends: For some of us to lift the diagrammed sentences of narrative fucking, lose the big meaningful words, and mutter asoft like a nun until peace comes.

Is it a symptom of living in patriarchy that the dick can morph, while other parts stay more or less themselves? Whatever the reason, in these essays the apparently tangible dick turns out to be made primarily not of flesh, nor plastic, but of the relations between us.

[thenewinquiry]

TNI Vol. 29: QUEENS

This is the editorial note to The New Inquiry Magazine, Vol. 29: Queens.

Look inside the issue here.

The queen addresses her audience. She is draped in ermine. She wears her jeweled crown and sits on her gold throne. It is the day she speaks to her assembled Parliament and delivers directives for the year. The representatives of capital stand before her, looking as obedient as children dragged to church. A single page boy faints, overcome by the power of the ceremony, but the queen does not signal that she notices. It seems like a grace note in the performance of her power, or a sad commentary on its actual application. Such is the plight of the queen.

A queen is the image of a woman at the height of her potential social standing. She evokes beauty, poise, and dignity simultaneously with power. Women who inhabit their social role fully and without struggle are crowned queens. But if the queen is the pinnacle, she is also the limit. If she is an exception to the general subordination of women, she proves the male rule.

We are now republicans, as far as the term goes. And the redistribution of royal titles can only be celebrated. Many more women than there have ever been noble families elicit cries of “queen” these days. “Queen,” unlike “princess,” functions as praise — though its deployment can teach us about the gender of power. She has avoided the fate of a princess, a title applied with more derision than awe, shaming women for articulating their desires as demands.

A queen is also ruthless, controlling, runs shit. A queen is not an executive, though. The corporate form of power is still far too fraternal to allow for anything sororal in the boardroom. A queen stands alone, fixed in place, with her subjects arrayed around her. This means she is also outnumbered. If her every movement seems deliberate, she might be self-possessed or she might be trapped.

In this issue, we explore the various valences of queendom. Beginning with an interview with Jarvis Derell, the voluble hashtagger behind #shehashadit, we discover the joys of “reading” and applaud the femme art of survival. By turning queens into #kweens, Derell opens up a social landscape where “the sorrows of long hours and urban poverty and precarious labor in the Sisyphean late-capitalist grind are reimagined as a series of joyful auditions and queer style choices and performative expressions of defiance.” And in “Seeing Stars,” Ana Finel Honigman assembles a collection of fan art devoted to female celebrity that rides on the dark energy of their public shame. Praise is central to the construction of the queen, though she must be strong enough to withstand the schadenfreude and sadism that inheres in celebration.

If queens live as exemplars of feminine performance, then most other types of women must be construed to miss her mark. In “Face Me, I Face You,” Derica Shields writes of searching visual culture for a reflection of herself and ends face-to-face with Queen Elizabeth I, her white head in the writer’s brown hand, both weighted with the unequal historical division of the spoils of slavery.

Not all queens are women — that’s clear — but not all drag is cis. In “You Don’t Own Me,” David Geer lauds drag sisterhood Chez Deep for their refusal to locate drag as the exposure of gender’s falsity, instead living drag as a form akin to goddess worship. While drag often does little but repackage the gender binary, Chez Deep prompts audiences to reject assumptions about the gendered subjectivity of the performer on stage. In return, Geer asks audiences to “rethink their relationship to drag performance and their responsibility as spectators.”

Early patriarchal attempts at codifying how to shut women up often left exemptions for funereal wails; later, all of women’s speech would be regarded as so much screaming. In “Scream Queens,” Kartik Nair investigates the sexual semiotics of the feminine shriek in horror films as they encounter early Hollywood censors and when they are dubbed into Hindi. The scream is part of a much larger body of emissions through which sexual difference is brought onto the screen, Nair writes. “What you hear is the sound of air passing through a matrix of sexual and social prescriptions.”

On other screens, queens project sexual difference as fate. In “Margot, Not at the Wedding,” Stephanie La Cava describes how she derived a stable of fetishes and a lesson in the feminized burden of survival from watching Patrice Chereau’s La Reine Margot at an impressionable age. The historic Margot has been immortalized in film numerous times, her story ripe with sham marriages, reversals of fortune, massacres, and betrayal. There may be two star-crossed lovers, but only one dies a martyr; Margot’s self-sacrifice ends in disgrace, poor queen.

We love queens because they are the supreme example of what we have. Their triumph as women can, from opportune angles, become women’s triumph. But like on the chessboard, their dominating capability is still in the service of the rule of a king. We can’t help but wonder what women might do or be after the queen’s reign ends.

[underoath101-blog]

Minor editorial note!

I just wanted to make a little update on the set list we posted a little while ago for Underøath's current tour with Thursday.

They are actually playing 3 encore songs, not 2. First is Desolate Earth: The End is Here and then the other 2.

For those of you who have been to the first few shows on the tour, how much did you love this set list?